


Deep Water

by blackberrychai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Coming Out, Fatherhood, Gen, Good Parent Jeralt Reus Eisner, Jeralt POV, Nonbinary Byleth Week (Fire Emblem), Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Trans Character, he's just doing his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27439099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackberrychai/pseuds/blackberrychai
Summary: Jeralt’s spars with Byleth, through the years.For Nonbinary Byleth Week
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Deep Water

**Author's Note:**

> My belated contribution to the day 1 prompts childhood and sparring!
> 
> Many thanks to casualbird for looking this over for me!!

_1164_

Byleth was a quiet child.

This was something that had always been true, and something Jeralt had learned to accept through these first odd years of fatherhood. Even once she had learned to speak, she didn’t say much, offering only the occasional comment or question. Part of him worried over this at every second of every day, turning her silence, her expressionless face over and over in his mind, prodding at it, stoking the fire of his fear of Rhea.

He was out of his depth here. A long way out of his depth. Even so, another part of him, one that floated easily to the surface in quiet moments, revelled in the easy peace they could share, and was guiltily grateful he wasn’t kept awake by a crying child.

But still, he was always glad to see his child being more lively, and lately it seemed that the way to inspire that was with swords. Of course, growing up around mercenaries, they were never too far away. She’d watched their glinting edges eagerly, even as a baby, and had started asking for her own at the age of three. At four, she had started clumsily trying to steal his practice weapons away to learn by herself, until he’d given in and begun to teach her. These moments, when he became a reluctant teacher, felt like he was just maybe learning to tread water.

“Dad?” repeated the small voice beside him, and Jeralt startled.

“Sorry, kid,” he said. She was standing there, holding her little wooden sword in one hand. “Here, let me show you.”

Impressing upon a child that the sharp objects she was constantly surrounded with were _not_ to be touched had been… well, actually, it had been easier than it had any right to be. That was troubling, again, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. She seemed content, if not fascinated with the wooden sword he’d cut down for her from one of his larger ones. He fell into position, and slowly moved his own practice sword in a quick circular motion that took him inside her guard position. She frowned, then mimicked it perfectly, pressing her little blade against his stomach. Jeralt smiled.

Yes, her silence might be worrying, but seeing her like this, intent and focused? Maybe things weren’t so bad.

_1168_

A nine-year-old Byleth was a strange thing, Jeralt mused, watching her doggedly move through the drills he had taught her. She had become remarkably, terrifyingly nimble, and it was, in a way, a joy to watch her in motion. The way her calm expression lifted, to be replaced with determination and a single-minded intensity.

She ran over to where he stood, on the edge of their little group’s makeshift camp. “Will you show me that parry from yesterday again?” she said.

He smiled at her, and took her hand to adjust her grip on the sword. Every year or so, he had to whittle a new one down to a size that would suit her. “Here,” he said. “Like this.” He carefully moved her arm through the motions of it, up and out and around.

She nodded seriously, and repeated it, over and over. Something in Jeralt’s heart warmed He’d fled the monastery a wreck of a man, devastated by destruction of his trust in Rhea, and inconsolable over Sitri’s death. Byleth had been hers, so he took her with him, but she was so strange, so unlike every other baby he’d met. With her strapped against his chest in a sling, he’d wandered for months until he’d fallen in with a mercenary group. It was still odd, leaving her in the arms of someone else every time he had to head into battle, and already she had begun to ask to come with him.

He refused every time, of course.

“Not yet, kid,” he said, ruffling her hair until she scowled up at him.

Then she’d sigh, and look up at him with those eyes that were a strange not-quite-blue. Sometimes, when the light caught them, they looked like the rivers he fished in did early in the morning, when the sun hit them just _so_. Her eyes ran deep, he thought, and he still didn’t know what was at the bottom of them.

Still. He had not brought her this far to lose her now. Even his strange, silent child, interested by swords but not much else, was more than he had feared he would have.

_1172_

“Will you spar with me?” Byleth asked.

Jeralt looked up from where he was sat by the fire, gutting the fish he’d caught for their dinner. He smiled. “Sure. Just let me finish this up.”

Byleth nodded, and sat down beside him, waiting patiently. They sat in comfortable silence as he finished cleaning the fish. When he was done, Jeralt got to his feet and wiped his hands off on a rag.

“All right, then,” he said, smiling down at Byleth, who nodded seriously, gathered up two practise swords, and followed him a short distance away from their camp. They took up positions opposite each other, and when he nodded, Byleth flew into motion, striking out at him. He parried, of course, and the air was filled with the crack of wood on wood.

“A boy in the village last week,” Byleth said suddenly, not stopping at all, “Told me I couldn’t be any good at fighting because I’m a girl.”

“What?” Jeralt said, letting his sword drop and waiting until Byleth followed suit. “That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of exceptional female mercenaries. And knights.”

Byleth frowned up at him. “Yes, I know. And I _am_ good at fighting. Better than him.”

He smiled. “Of course you are. I bet you’re worth three of him, girl or not.”

Byleth’s fingers twitched on the hilt of the sword. “What if I’m… not. Not a girl, I mean.”

“Oh,” Jeralt said after a moment. “Well, that’s OK. Are you… are you a boy, then?”

There was a contemplative look on Byleth’s face. “I don’t think so,” they said. “I don’t think I’m anything.”

Jeralt was quiet, at a loss for words. His mind raced, but he did his best to keep it off his face. “OK,” he said. “Do you want to carry on sparring?”

Byleth nodded, face still serious, but he could see a little more ease in the set of their shoulders, the angle of their chin. The match resumed again, but Jeralt was distracted, and he drew it to a close earlier than he usually would.

He ruffled Byleth’s hair as they frowned at him. “Got to get the fish cooking,” he said.

It could have waited another half hour, but Byleth was already looking oddly at him, and never was his distraction more obvious than when sparring with them. So young, and yet they already demanded his full attention to keep beating them in their little matches. _Precocious_ , other mercenaries said to him, and he took pride in their skill. But still, tonight he was too busy turning their words over in his head.

_I don’t think I’m anything_. Was that his fault? His failures, bringing up a child in the wandering, unsettled life of a mercenary? Was it whatever Rhea had done? Or would it always have been this way?

He shook his head to clear it. He would spar with Byleth again after their meal, he decided. They deserved more from him than this.

_1176_

Jeralt looked over at his child, flushed with victory, and smiled. Picking himself up from the ground, he enjoyed the sliver of a grin that Byleth shot him, and groaned.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he complained. “My bones hurt every time you do that.”

They smirked at him. “You’re just making excuses,” they said,

He shook his head, but grinned back at them. He was, after all. It’s not like he’d aged since—well. No use thinking about that now.

“Again?” He asked.

Byleth nodded. “Use your lance this time. Maybe then you’ll be able to win.”

Jeralt gave them a mock glare, but retrieved his training lance. They were training in the stable yard of an inn this week, while they waited for news of another job. It was a relief to sleep in an actual bed rather than a bedroll in a tent, and with Byleth turning into a more-than-capable mercenary, their little troop could well afford it.

He hated it when people gushed over the _Ashen Demon_ , hated the way they praised Byleth’s expressionless face. But he hated it even more when people flinched away from them, whispered that they had no soul, and that was why they were so blank. It too easily reminded him of his own uncharitable thoughts about his child, what he still feared at times. But still, the reputation they were building was good for business, that was certain. Contracts had been thick on the ground, and well-paid.

Byleth spun their sword idly as he returned, staring blankly at the sky.

“You OK?” Jeralt asked.

They nodded back at him. “Just thinking,” they said. “Come on.”

He did beat them with the lance, in the end, but it was a closer thing than he’d have liked. Maybe he was getting old. And nothing drove that home more than looking at Byleth, almost an adult now. He sighed, and followed them back inside the inn, very much ready for a drink.

Perhaps it should be alarming that it was when fighting that he felt most at peace. Or perhaps that was just fighting with Byleth. They still got that look when they held a sword, the one they’d had since they were a small child—focused and intense and alert. That, more than anything, he thought, soothed his fears. It was hard to worry about your kid when they stood in front of you, surprisingly elegant in motion, and so obviously capable. They came alive when they sparred, and that was more than worth occasionally being beaten into the ground.

_Ethereal Moon, 1180_

“Again,” Byleth said, staggering to their feet. Jeralt looked at them cautiously, eyes assessing. They had only won one of their bouts today—a far lower rate than usual. Teaching was obviously exhausting.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

Byleth just looked at him, and he sighed. “All right, all right. Once more.”

It was not a fast match—it was late in the evening, and both of them were tired and slow. Jeralt’s spear thrusts were purposeful and precise, though, and he could feel his muscles aching every time Byleth danced back and away from him. Eventually, he knocked them off balance with a strike at their feet, then sent them staggering back as he caught their stomach with the length of his lance. Byleth doubled over, panting, and held up a hand. They both came to a weary stop.

“Well, kid?” Jeralt said, placing a firm hand on their shoulder. “That enough now?”

Byleth nodded, face serious. “Thanks,” they said, and their head tilted slightly. “Do you really have to leave for your mission so soon?”

A jolt of affection ran through him. “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “Take care while I’m gone, all right?”

They nodded. “I can look after myself.”

He smiled. “I know. I used to worry about you so much, you know,” he added. “But… still, it was never really about your safety.”

Byleth looked up at him, but didn’t say anything. Their eyes were calm pools, and even years later he hadn’t quite figured out all the tricks of plumbing their depths. He exhaled, long and slow.

“You were so… so quiet, but I never knew what to do about it,” he said. “I worried I was doing something wrong, or there was something the matter and I didn’t know how to help.”

They shrugged. “I’m just a quiet person, I think.”

He smiled, and wrapped an arm around their shoulders. “Yeah. But still.”

“I suppose—” Byleth began. “I don’t know. I don’t think I had many emotions as a child. Not till recently, really.”

Jeralt shook his head, slowly. “It wasn’t really the best life to bring a child up in,” he muttered.

Byleth tilted their head. “No. I liked how I grew up.”

“Really?” Jeralt asked, startling himself with the vulnerability in his voice. “I never knew if I was doing the right thing. And then when you told me you weren’t a girl… I wondered if you just weren’t the same as other people.”

Byleth showed their first obvious sign of emotion in their whole conversation, and frowned. “That has nothing to do with anything,” they said firmly. “I have more emotions now, and I’m still not a girl.”

“I know, I know!” he hurried to say, and sighed. “I mean, I know that now. But I…” he shook his head. “Never mind.” No matter what they said, he was sure he hadn’t been the best of fathers. He had been so lost in his grief, in his fear, that he hadn’t really considered what would be best for Byleth.

“Hey kid?” he said, as they walked away from the training area. “We’ll talk more when I’m back, but… whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”

Byleth stopped walking, and looked up at him. They didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when they did, there was frustration in their calm voice. “Dad, I have so many questions. I really hope you answer some of them. But… thank you.”

Jeralt felt his eyes prickle, and pulled Byleth in towards him before they could see it.

“I’m glad I got to see how good the last months have been to you,” he murmured into their hair. “I’ll answer your questions, I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look it didn't mean it to end a bit angstily it just,,, happened.
> 
> Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/blackberrychai)!


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